


saudade

by ang_gray_smol



Series: three times the charm [1]
Category: Noli Me Tangere & Related Works - José Rizal
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Flashbacks, Language of Flowers, M/M, Post-Canon, Valentine's Day, hop aboard the feels train for sad fics featuring sadder characters, v-day was two months ago but shhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-25 08:57:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10760952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ang_gray_smol/pseuds/ang_gray_smol
Summary: >>>Portuguese // the feeling of intense longing for a person or place you love but is now lost; a haunting desire for what is gone1 [ Crisostomo didn't know anything until he lost Elias ]2 [ Even in the present, Basilio still misses Isagani ]3 [ Placido should've known earlier what Juanito wanted to say ]





	1. •thirteen•red•roses•

**Author's Note:**

> hello im not showing any signs of updating the kimi no na wa au, so while im looking for that sign have an extremely late valentines day collection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I...thank you, Elias." Crisostomo smiled at the bouquet before noticing something odd.
> 
> "Elias, there are thirteen roses in this bunch."
> 
> Elias simply nodded his head. "So there are."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 13 roses (any color) ::: Forever friends // Secret admirer

In time, Elias has learned to be cautious around Crisostomo Ibarra.

He has learned, through his short excursions and walks around San Diego, how to appear to the other man. How to talk to the other man. How to maintain conversation. How to appeal to the other man despite the obvious differences in social standing (Elias is glad that all his secret time spent in public libraries, writing unknown words on a spare piece of paper and burying his face into different books, helped). He has learned to read Crisostomo Ibarra’s mannerisms, his quirks, his way of speaking…

He has them all jotted down in his mind so he wouldn’t forget.

(He has no intention of forgetting anyway. The man is too precious to him already to forget.)

In those months of short excursions and encounters with Crisostomo Ibarra, all of those learnings have boiled down to a single moment—a single moment that he has been planning for a few days, and he hopes it will not fail, lest he be damned.

This single moment of decisive planning is crucial to him, because only then will he learn to stop being so cautious around Crisostomo Ibarra.

.

.

.

Step one of Elias’ plan is to simply appear at the man’s doorstep. It is the easiest step of them all, but the most heart-racing one, because for now he will appear differently to Crisostomo.

In the months of excursions and encounters where he kept his heart tucked away and sealed with a lock and guarded with a knife, he appears before the man with his heart in his hands, behind his back, and he doesn’t know how to gauge Crisostomo’s reaction, as he has only appeared to him the way he his, guarded heart behind bars.

A servant ushers Elias into the waiting room, and warily eyes the bunch that he’s holding in his hands. He didn’t pay mind to the servant, and only anxiously waited for the master of the house to appear.

“Ah, Elias, it’s good to see you again—”

Crisostomo comes down from the grand staircase in the middle of the hall, and pauses halfway when he sees Elias, and what he’s holding.

Step two of Elias’ plan is to smile and feign innocence. Crisostomo doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know yet, and it’s best to continue that farce before breaking the ice.

“For you,” Elias said, holding up the bouquet of red roses for Crisostomo to see. He smiled a rare smile, hoping to hit another switch.

Crisostomo nervously gulped, and in the bright light of the mansion, Elias could see that he’s flushed a light pink.

“Let’s discuss the matter in my study, shall we?” Crisostomo said calmly, trying to maintain his composure. Elias isn’t sure if this is a good sign that his plan is working, or not. Nonetheless, it’s a sign that he should continue and see what would happen next.

The boatman followed up the staircase, and to Crisostomo’s study, where Crisostomo told the servant on duty to not disturb them, and immediately locked the door afterwards.

Then, he turned to Elias, who was still holding the bouquet of red roses in his arms.

“W-what’s this?” Crisostomo finally spluttered. Despite his aristocratic exterior, Elias knows deep down that Crisostomo Ibarra can easily get flustered and confused when something unexpected comes his way.

(Like, for instance, the appearance of a close friend with something rather foreign in his hands.)

“A gift for you,” Elias replied simply. “I’ve read about this tradition in a book before.”

Crisostomo’s eyes darted to his own extravagant bouquet at the other side of the room, intended for Maria Clara, then back to the one that Elias was holding in his hands. It was wrapped in white Japanese paper, and secured with a felt red ribbon. It was simple, like the man holding it, but it carried so much gravity.

“I know it’s rude of me to ask, but where did you get the money for this? The Philippines doesn’t grow native roses as far as I know, so getting a whole dozen of them…”

“I’ve been saving up.”

“For months?!”

“Yes.”

“…just for this?”

“Yes.”

Crisostomo opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again.

Internally, Elias pet himself on the back. Maybe his determination would convey a short message to Crisostomo, and he wouldn’t have to go through the embarrassingly long speech that he prepared the night before.

Then, hesitantly, Crisostomo asked, “That’s…for me?”

Elias smiled again, Crisostomo felt a weird pang in his heart. It ached, and he didn’t know why. Elias’ smile was so full of… _something_ that Crisostomo couldn’t decipher.

“Yes, _senyor_ Ibarra.”

Step three of Elias’ plan is to simply give the roses. It’s the hardest step of them all, but the easiest to execute, because even if steps one and two failed, he could perform step three just by delivering the thing at Crisostomo’s doorstep.

(But no, he so desperately wanted to perform steps one and two, because he wants to stop being cautious around Crisostomo Ibarra, and he wants to give his heart bunched up among the flowers as well. Such wouldn’t happen if he just asked a servant to give it to him. Crisostomo _needs_ to know. Elias would be damned if he died and Crisostomo still knew nothing.)

He held out the bouquet of red roses, and very gingerly, Crisostomo took it. The Japanese paper crinkled upon being received into the hands of another.

"I...thank you, Elias." Crisostomo smiled at the bouquet before noticing something odd.

"Elias, there are thirteen roses in this bunch."

Elias simply nodded his head. "So there are."

Step four of Elias’ plan was the waiting game. The obscure, subtle realization.

He waits for Crisostomo to realize something, by looking at the flowers, at the meaning, at his heart lying in wait inside.

Crisostomo coughed, pulling Elias out of his reverie. “Ah—ehem—well, if that’s all then…”

(He’s reluctant to let Elias go. He’s always liked Elias’ company, even if it was just the two of them standing in silence. It wasn’t awkward nor stifling. It was the comfortable kind.)

Elias felt his heart sink.

(Step five is throwing all rational thought out the window and lowering his guard. Enough was enough, and if Crisostomo couldn’t get the subtle message that Elias _liked_ him, then maybe a physical act would do because Elias had suddenly remembered that Crisostomo Ibarra can be as a dense as a rock.)

He took a rose from the arrangement that Crisostomo was holding, and snapped the stem into a shorter length.

“Elias!” Crisostomo said in alarm. He whimpered at Elias tossing the rest of the rose stem aside.

“I know I’m not in a position to say this,” Elias started, “but…”

In Crisostomo’s peripheral vision he could see Elias raising his hand. Crisostomo blinked repeatedly, until he felt Elias’ hand graze against his skin, and brush his hair back.

(Elias had to fight the urge to just hold the man like that.)

Startled, he pulled back, and reached up to touch his cheek and his hair.

He stopped when he felt a cold long thing perched on the shell of his ear, and soft flower petals.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,  _senyor_.”

.

.

.

The first thing that Simoun did upon his return to the Philippines was to find that same spot near the Pasig river, that same place in the trees where the boy Basilio made a funeral pyre for Elias as his dying wish.

He had something to give him, and Hell could swallow him alive if he wasn’t able to give it.

When he saw the tree marked with a large “x”, he stopped. Simoun knelt down, and reached into the breast pocket of his coat.

He pulled out a flattened, dried rose, the only one that he kept after the rest of the bouquet wilted and died.

(The rose that Elias tucked in his ear years before, which he pressed in a heavy tome afterwards, which he managed to salvage even after his mansion was burnt to the ground.)

Simoun laid it at the base of the tree, tears starting to well up in his eyes.

“Why?” he rasped angrily, balling his fists until his knuckles were stretched and white.

“Why didn’t you tell me back then, you idiot?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

~~I wouldn’t have another regret placed upon my shoulders if you did.~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this was just something to get me back into a writing groove, as i've been in writer's block hell for the entire month of april (haha sayang summer break ;-; )
> 
> aside from that, i've been trying to revise my writing style as well, so this is yet another experiment for that (thus the unsatisfactory result...well in my eyes, that is)
> 
>  
> 
> (also i know i said before that this was supposed to be a fluffy elibarra v-day fic but umm;;)
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://almightytrashcan.tumblr.com/post/160183095883/saudade-part-1)


	2. •hibiscus•

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Th-this is a feminine flower that symbolizes a perfect wife or a perfect woman, Isagani, I look embarrassing–"
> 
> "Doesn't matter. You're perfect to me."
> 
> Basilio blushed deeply and looked away. If only he had Isagani's poetic mind then he would've retorted with something as equally tasteful, but he could only muster a quiet, "Idiot."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hibiscus (commonly referred to as gumamela in the Philippines) ::: perfect wife // perfect woman  
> red hibiscus ::: love and passion

It was only by several strokes of luck that Basilio was reinstated into society.

(Basilio was a man of science, and firmly believed in facts grounded with logic and evidence. He didn’t believe in miracles or luck, but even the most upright man would cling to it if ever they find themselves in the most desperate of situations. Like he was back then.)

He was currently wrapping up his final year of university, before he could finally, _finally_ start practicing medicine legally. He took classes with his underclassmen whom he befriended even before, studied with them, endured the jibes and lashes from the professors who knew of his rebellious streak the year before, and carried the draft of his supposed valedictory speech from last school year in a journal with him everywhere he went (a bitter reminder that all should’ve been well, _should’ve_ been well, he reminds himself).

It was a miracle that Basilio was even reinstated into society, after the terrible phases he’d undergone after the botched revolution that Simoun had instigated. He had blamed Simoun all he wanted after the uprising failed and he had nothing left in his hands to hold onto. It was time to move on and try to get back on track.

And yet, there was an absence in Basilio’s heart. One that, despite being surrounded in the warm company of his underclassman friends and a familiar university setting, continued to tug at it until it ached and bled and drained all his sad, sad blood onto the cobblestone.

Every realization of this makes Basilio click his tongue in annoyance. He misses his actual friends, _goddammit_. He misses the people at the _panciteria_ —Makaraig, Sandoval, Pecson, Tadeo, Placido, Juanito, Isagani—even if he never went with them in the first place.

He misses Isagani the most.

Ever since their rather lamentable rendezvous on the day of Juanito and Paulita’s wedding, he hasn’t heard from him. By snooping around he learned that Isagani moved to the province with his godfather—which province it is, Basilio will never know—and that he discontinued his studies, which Basilio finds to be a waste because how could Isagani just drop his Atenean education like that?!

(There he goes, chastising Isagani in his head again. He needs to stop, really. There’s no point in reprimanding someone who isn’t there anymore.)

.

.

.

Basilio was reading under the shade of a mango tree, preparing for his final exams, the final exams that he was supposed to take last year. He had his notebook perched on his lap as he twiddled with his pen in his fingers, occasionally annotating his notes here and there.

“Basilio!”

He looked up, but there didn’t seem to be anyone calling him. He swore someone called him though. The voice was even familiar. Confused, he looked around, until his eyes caught sight of a red gumamela flower, growing on a tall stalk.

Basilio blushed, and forced himself to study again.

.

.

.

“Please tell me you’re doing something other than studying.”

Basilio rolled his eyes. Then, he snapped the book on his lap shut, and looked up at Isagani.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not.”

Isagani sighed. “Geez, _kuya_. I know you’re intent on becoming a doctor, but you need to let your brain rest too, you know.”

Basilio ignored him and continued reading. “I don’t mind.”

Isagani sighed again, evidently tired that his upperclassman was being a stubborn prick (something rather unlike him). Isagani just wanted to walk with Basilio around the grounds of the Walled City, not try and coax him out of his hardcore study mode shell. Taking a walk was nice too anyway. The weather was bright and windy, students seemed to oddly walk in gendered pairs: a boy and a girl, and the girls seemed to be giggly over flowers…

Then, the thought hit him.

“Are you, by any chance, avoiding Valentine’s Day?”

The moment Basilio jumped up from his seat, spluttering and blushing like a madman, Isagani knew that he hit home.

“Are you? Are you actually? Oh god, _kuya_ , you’re so _red_!”

“Shut up you,” Basilio countered, covering his heating face with his book. He narrowed his eyes at Isagani, who started to laugh. “And no, I am not avoiding Valentine’s Day. I just want to focus on studying, thank you very much.”

“Aww, don’t act like that, Basilio.” Isagani pouted. “I’m not going to ask you on a date or anything. I literally just want to walk around.”

Slowly, Basilio put the book down.

“Is that too hard to do?”

“Alright alright, you don’t have to put in more drama there.”

“But I’m a writer! It’s my job to put drama in everything.”

Basilio rolled his eyes again, but he wasn’t irked anymore.

“Also…”

Suddenly, Isagani yanked the book out of Basilio’s hands. Basilio made a sound of protest, and made a move to grab it back. Isagani held the book high up in the air so Basilio couldn’t reach it.

“No way. If we’re going to walk, I don’t want you to be half-walking, half-reading with me.”

“I suddenly regret agreeing to this.”

“No you don’t. You just say that to turn me off.”

Isagani matched Basilio’s death-glare one on one before the latter consented.

With a grumble, Basilio and Isagani went on with their walk around the Walled City.

“It’s a nice day for walking, don’t you think, Basilio?” Isagani asked as he stretched his arms out then let them settle at the nape of his neck, the book conveniently placed in his left hand so when he crossed his arms it would be facing the right side, still far from Basilio’s reach.

“Well…quite.” Basilio would be lying if he didn’t say that the weather was indeed pleasant—the kind that a shut-in student would need as motivation to try and go out for a bit.

“Some sort of Valentine’s magic, don’t you think?”

“No.”

Isagani chuckled, as they went on with their walk.

“Hey, Aning.”

“Yeah?”

Basilio took a look to the left, then to the right. Anxiety twitched at his eyebrow, a certain something bugging him that can’t make him totally enjoy the walk.

“Won’t people suspect us to be some kind of couple? Especially considering the occasion today…”

Isagani shrugged. “Don’t think so. There’s no law prohibiting two male friends from taking a stroll around the city, right?”

Basilio opened his mouth to say something (maybe a rhetorical question), but instead closed it and simply nodded his head. No point in arguing with Isagani lest he wanted to ruin this one fine day.

(That’s how precious he must be to Basilio. He’d rather let slide Isagani’s snark and wit than berate him for something that is genuinely his.)

They walked on for a few more minutes, passing by more of those young couples with red roses in their hands.

“Roses are the most common symbol of love…” Basilio mused.

“So they are. Is that flower language you’re talking about?”

Basilio nodded. “It’s used mostly in Britain, so as to convey secret messages to one another without the need for words.”

“Huh,” Isagani said, taking a look at the red roses as well. “That’s impressive. Maybe I should start giving flowers to the others to show them how much they suck.”

“Please don’t give me one.”

“W-why not?!”

“What’s impressive about flower language anyway? It must be a chore to memorize all of the flower meanings. Plus they wilt easily, and I haven’t got a vase to put them.”

“How do you know what red roses mean?”

“I-it’s generic! Everyone would ought to know that.”

By the time they got back to the university grounds the sun was already starting to set. Isagani had handed over Basilio’s book back, who, upon receiving it, made a beeline towards his classroom.

“Oi! Not even a ‘thanks for the walk’?”

Basilio stopped and exhaled. Then he turned around, and slowly walked towards Isagani.

Rigidly he pat the taller one’s shoulder. “Thanks for the walk,” Basilio said mechanically, like he had somewhere else that he wanted to be (not because he didn’t like Isagani or his company, but because Isagani looked like he was hiding something behind his back and Basilio had to skedaddle the hell out of there to avoid further embarrassment).

“Hold on.”

A firm hand grasped Basilio’s wrist. He felt the tip of his ears grow hot, and when he turned around, Isagani tucked a soft something in between tufts of his hair.

“Isagani, what are you—”

“It’s a _gumamela_. I just saw it a while ago.”

Basilio blinked twice, until the realization hit him.

He turned redder than the flower in his hair.

"Th-this is a feminine flower that symbolizes a perfect wife or a perfect woman, Isagani, I look embarrassing–"

"Doesn't matter. You're perfect to me."

Basilio blushed deeply and looked away. If only he had Isagani's poetic mind then he would've retorted with something as equally tasteful, but he could only muster a quiet, "Idiot."

.

.

.

Basilio wants to blame Isagani for changing his worldview on _gumamelas_ , but if it’s a precious memento of a memory of a long gone someone from some time ago, then Basilio thinks it’s better to leave it as is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> less angst
> 
> [tumblr](http://almightytrashcan.tumblr.com/post/160225893883/saudade-part-2)


	3. •striped•carnation•for•two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the end, Placido was a fool.
> 
>  
> 
> _That makes the both of us, eh?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> striped carnation ::: No // Refusal // Sorry I Can't Be with You // Wish I Could Be with You

The rain came down lightly, in soft drops of _pitter-patter_ , plinking off of the roofs and the sidewalk.

Placido found it odd that it was showering in February. Usually the rain would start off towards late July and continue until mid-September. There would be occasional May showers too, but rain wasn’t _this_ long in the month of February.

“Odd weather don’t you think, Placiding?”

Placido froze in his seat, before grudgingly turning around to face the bane of his existence ~~, the love of his life, and the light of his world~~.

“What the fuck do you want, Juanito?” Placido asked rigidly, narrowing his eyes at the haughty looking hunchback, and suddenly feeling immense regret the moment he took in the other’s countenance.

Juanito smirked, and Placido could feel heat rising to the tips of his ears (since when did the asshole ever make him flustered? Was that even the proper term? Oh god…). “Oh, I wonder,” he said, in a half-assed attempt to be vague and mysterious—the kind of tactic he uses on girls who try playing hard to get. “Everyone else is looking for you.”

Placido furrowed his brows in confusion. He stood up from his chair. “Why?”

“Didn’t you hear? Makaraig’s treating us for lunch at the _panciteria_. And I assume you haven’t eaten anything yet, right?” Juanito replied simply. The entire time he spoke, he kept his hands behind his back (not that Placido was suspicious or anything, but it was odd that Juanito would be so… _chill_ when talking to him. Usually he’d be working on Placido’s strings the whole hour, the whole day even if Juanito wanted to).

“Ah…okay. Let’s go.”

Juanito, being a courteous gentleman, let Placido head out the room first, gripping the carnation stem behind his back even tighter, and closing the door of the classroom behind them quietly.

.

.

.

“Okay, but are you _sure_ Makaraig’s actually going to treat us out for lunch? Or are you just making things up so you could disturb me?”

Juanito waved his free hand around nonchalantly. “Of course not, Placiding! Why would I ever lie to you?”

“You do that all the time to piss me off. And stop calling me ‘Placiding’!”

Juanito pouted, then burst into fits of laughter when Placido’s face turned a visible shade of pink.

“Oi, do you want to get wet or something?!”

.

.

.

“Ah.”

Placido is what most people would call ‘smart’. No, not ‘intelligent’, because the two words, though similar in thought, are widely different in application.

Being ‘intelligent’ refers to being well versed in the academics or in the field of study in which one person is accustomed to.

Being ‘smart’ means that you know how to fucking act when your crush gives you a carnation in the middle of the university campus under a light shower, on what you realize is Valentine’s Day.

“Well?” Juanito urged, holding out the carnation and urging Placido to take it. The flower had started collecting raindrops in its petals. “It won’t bite, you know.”

“I know it won’t bite!” Placido replied irritably, reaching out for the flower.

Then, he faltered.

“Something called ‘flower language’ exists.”

“Yeah.”

Placido swallowed hard, his stomach churning into a pit of despair. “Well then, what does a carnation mean?”

Juanito cocked his head to the side. “Pardon?”

“You got this for a reason, Juanito. Don’t be stupid.” Placido crossed his arms in an attempt to look bored, but he only hid the fact that his stomach was swarming with a multitude of butterflies, that any word from Juanito could make him _vomit_.

Juanito smiled his trademark crooked smile. “You’re being too broad, Placiding. A carnation of a specific color or pattern could tell a different thing altogether.”

“Then what the hell does that… _striped_ carnation mean?!”

“I wonder…”

A few seconds had passed until the realization hit Placido in the face.

Placido’s heart got caught in his throat, making it harder and harder to breathe. Juanito’s smile only grew wider, but deep within his eyes it was a much darker place, an irony to the grin plastered on his face.

Placido’s eyes welled up with tears as Juanito shoved the carnation right at his chest.

“Come on, or Makaraig will make us pay the bill.”

.

.

.

(“What’s with Placido today?”

“Yeah, he seems to be really out of it right now.”

“…I’d rather that you guys don’t ask.)

.

.

.

Placido dashed all the way to what was once recognized as _Kapitan_ Tiyago’s house, now converted into a reception area for the most popular newlywed.

He waited in anticipation, trying to catch his breath as he clutched a striped carnation in his hand. He waited for the groom to come out, so he could give the damned flower and be gone with it.

He even waited when the shadowed figure snatched the lamp from the table and threw it into the river (it cost him a sense of grief, realizing that Simoun’s plan had failed again).

Juanito ran out the gazebo, and spotted Placido, looking forlorn with a carnation in his hand.

His mouth formed a small ‘o’ at the realization.

Placido smiled sadly, attempting to mimic Juanito’s smile earlier that year.

“Wish I could be with you, but the girl beat me to it.”

No one could stop the tears flowing down their faces.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://almightytrashcan.tumblr.com/post/160510698323/saudade-part-3-final)
> 
>  
> 
> thank you for reading ^_^)/  
> (will go semi-hiatus until life throws me some lemons aka inspo ;-; )

**Author's Note:**

> let's talk about el nolibu on almightytrashcan.tumblr.com


End file.
